My approach to making abstract art means I am constantly treading a fine line — between intention and intuition.

Intuition draws me in because it offers a gentle rebellion against a world obsessed with perfection and control. When I paint intuitively, I let go. I trust the process. I trust myself. There is beauty in allowing chance and coincidence to shape the work — a kind of grace that reveals itself only when I surrender.

But there comes a moment when the brush must pause, when a decision must be made. I know I have arrived at this point when I begin to sense the title of the piece. This is when intention steps in.

I welcome this shift as a transition towards completion, although it does not necessarily mean the end is near. It becomes a quiet, intellectual dance — editing, refining, waiting, questioning and pondering. I assess what the work needs to become its fullest expression. It is problem-solving, yes, but also a form of care. I want the piece to resonate, not just with me, but with others.

In the end, it is not about choosing one over the other. It is the dynamic between intuition and intention that gives the work its life. And perhaps that, too, mirrors the way I live: led by the heart, guided by thought, open to mystery — always treading the fine line, always seeking equilibrium.